


Diverging Pathways

by Lukoni



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Desk Sex, M/M, Slash, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lukoni/pseuds/Lukoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Washington has one final mission for Captain Crane.  How does one send a lover to his death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diverging Pathways

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenissima (killalla)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killalla/gifts).



> For serenissma. Hope this is along the lines of what you were looking for. Had great fun reading the letters of the illustrious father of our country for this, so thanks for the prompt.
> 
> Many thanks for a last minute beta from [Measured_Words](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words), who assured me that it at least made some sort of crazed sense. :D Please excuse any typos/errors - I was tinkering up until the deadline. @_@

The general paced the floor in a manner some might consider unfitting for the commander in chief of the mighty Continental Army. On another occasion he might have been concerned about how his movements might be perceived and held himself back from an unseemly display of restless spirits. It was for the best, then, that Washington was alone, with no witness to carry word of his action to idle tongues of the discontented. 

The solitude was most welcome, after the clamor of his field office and the tumult of the battlefield. He would have enjoyed it immensely but for the burden of the orders he would shortly deliver. The room, set aside for contemplation and study, was well-appointed, with two walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk for research, and a group of well-stuffed chairs in which to read. A decanter of French brandy, which had already served to reduce his headache to a level hardly to be noticed, beckoned from the sideboard, and a small fire set shadows to dancing, for although Summer held sway out of doors, the small chamber that lay secreted beneath the Lodge knew only the breath of Autumn within its walls.

His eye caught the large, gilt mirror as his perambulations brought him to the mantelpiece. There was only his reflection this time— no mist-laden wood seeping cold and foreboding airs into his soul, as sometimes appeared. And there were times when, in the wood, he could see the faintest movement of a dark, shuffling figure of malevolent countenance and fearsome power. The general had long ago become accustomed to such encounters, having experienced the first one nearly four decades prior, not in a mirror, but face to face, during his first summer at his brother’s estate along the gentle waters of the Potomac River. The creature spoke not a word upon that occasion, merely leveled a grotesque finger as if in accusation at the boy’s breast, then turned away, slipped behind a crooked tree and was gone. 

Washington was never able after to describe, and thankfully he was never called upon to do so, the terror that suffused him at that moment, for it was more than just the knowledge that a creature so at variance with the natural order of things could slink boldly across the earth in the full light of day; the churning deep down in his soul in the manner of a great quake, such as that which swallowed up the ill-fated city of Port Royal, or perhaps even that which was foretold to greet the rupture of the sixth seal itself, upended his sensibilities and forever altered the course of his life. Were he otherwise disposed, he might have fled, trembling with fear and laid his tale before his brother and guardian. Ever a sensible child, with an eye toward deliberate, reasoned action, and not wishing to incur the notoriety incumbent on one who spreads fanciful tales, he told no one of his encounter on the edge of the meadow by Little Hunting Creek. 

From that day forward he’d been plagued with visionary dreams, some fanciful and harbingering nothing less than the end of days, while others disclosed glimpses of actions otherwise unknowable to any but the perpetrators themselves. He often wondered why the Almighty Father saw fit to send them to a man so wholly unsuited to receive them. He did not take fright and devote himself body and soul to fortify himself and his family against the coming darkness. Nor did he feel the least inclination to spread the word of the Lord far and wide for the betterment of mankind. Instead, after a short-lived fancy to take to the sea, he took up a sensible trade more suited to his robust and logical temperament, and devoted himself to the twin aims of his heart—to become a gentleman and to be respected. It never occurred to him that such steady aspects of character might be exactly what was wanted in a vessel of providence.

A sharp crack from the fire roused the general from his reverie. There was ill time to spare for this encounter. The French were due any day and intelligence could arrive at any moment, and yet he could not forego this final duty to a priceless ally and cherished friend, if that name could truly encompass all they had been to one another. The anguish swelled in his heart as his thoughts turned to what lay ahead. He could not explain in what manner the knowledge had come to him, as had been the case countless times before, but it was certain sure that this would be their final meeting. He tried to take comfort in the justice and wisdom of divine will, but to be called upon to be the instrument of such justice for one whom he loved so dear was perhaps the cruelest agony he could imagine.

For over a quarter century it had been Washington’s foremost duty first to find, then protect this man, chosen by the Almighty as champion in ultimate contest. He had exerted himself at every opportunity to guide Ichabod along the path that would afford him the most opportunity to arm himself with the tools he would need to prevail in this battle that would require as much skill of mind as of body. And now the time had come to relinquish his duty. By setting the Captain in the path of the Horseman, the dire masked figure who had charged through the general’s dreams for so long now, events would be set in motion that would seal the fate of humanity. For good or ill, he had no clear assurance, only that mankind’s only hope lay down this road. 

It would be sorrow beyond measure to lose this companion of such long standing, for while the young Englishman had first laid eyes upon the general a mere handful of years ago, the general had carried the visage of Ichabod Crane in his mind thrice as long, since a night of sultry winds and fevered dreams, as he lay gripped in the throes of smallpox, revealed to him the face of the man who held the promise of hope in the darkness and the salvation of mankind. In the long years to come on the frontier, where dark forces hovered in the shadows, where allies hid treachery behind the hand of friendship, and those who purported to cherish liberty proved craven and false, it had proved a comfort to know there was a glimmer of hope for the future. At that time, he knew only that the man would be a British soldier, tall and lean with the hint of a beard, and eyes of the clearest blue. He passed word through his network of allies to be watchful for such an one, but it if felt like a lifetime, punctuated many deaths, of family and friends alike, before the promised confederate was found. And now that he was fighting with them, in the bosom of the cause of liberty, Washington was reluctant to let him go to what, he knew, was the man’s true destiny. 

Footsteps outside the door apprised him of the arrival of his visitor, and he braced himself to begin a most difficult intercourse. The door opened to reveal the stately figure of Captain Crane, his cheeks flushed from riding, and his eyes burning, as were their wont when the general looked upon him, with confidence, ambition, and devotion. His uniform was impeccable, as was his wont. How he managed such a feat under the conditions in which they lived was a matter of some debate among his fellow officers. Washington held his tongue on such occasions, for he knew a good deal more about the skills of Mrs. Crane than even her husband, and he found amusement in the fact that she would devote a fraction of her considerable power to keeping her lord looking presentable. After all, a well-dressed man wielded a power, unappreciated by most, to influence his fellows in subtle but important ways.

“You sent for me, sir?” 

“Indeed, Captain. Thank you for coming so quickly.” They clasped hands in a fashion known only among the brotherhood. There was comfort there, in the sensation of the long sure fingers sliding against his calloused skin. At one time, only his beloved Fairfax could bring him peace with a simple touch. But he was gone now, separated from the general by an ocean of salt water and a gulf of political theory. The irony was not lost upon Washington that the very year that took Fairfax away brought him in return young Ichabod, a man in dire need of guide and protector after abandoning his homeland and betraying his king. As once his mentor turned to lover, so did he find himself following the same path for his young protégé.

Washington turned away, attempting to suppress the untimely recollection of such intimate matters, and poured out a brandy for the captain. With a gesture of his own glass, they each settled into a chair before the fire. He tried to find the words to commence this dialog, but his reluctance to broach a subject that was sure to engender many painful sensations overcame his natural inclination to deal plainly in matters of war.

“Do I discern a melancholy air in your countenance,” Ichabod asked solicitously.

“Nothing of the sort,” he protested, not wishing to allude to the true nature of his thoughts. “I am merely fatigued by the pressing weight of my duties.”

“Now sir, I must accuse you of prevarication, for never have I witnessed, nor indeed heard the merest whisper, of such a condition to have manifest itself in our great general.” Washington thought back over the many illnesses he had suffered over the years and marveled at how easily reputation had overtaken the man, recasting him in iron and gilded with gold. If only that were true. There were days when a mere glance from Captain Crane made him feel as if it were so.

“If truth be told, I must send you away again, and I find myself unwilling to do so.”

“You said something similar to me when you sent me on my first mission,” Ichabod reminded him. “When I went to Boston to retrieve your ancient relic. And I returned from there without injury.”

Washington smiled tolerantly, but his mind conjured the vision that had caused his reluctance, that of Ichabod lying senseless on a warehouse floor, surrounded by smoke and blood. If the same dream had not also brought with it the conviction that it would be essential for Crane to have knowledge of this relic, he would not have involved him at all. It was difficult to navigate using only the insights instilled by means of prophetic dreams, and he had no one to counsel him in such matters. He had always rubbed along as best he could, but there were times when information appeared contradictory, causing him to doubt his decisions in a most unaccustomed manner.

“Yes, indeed, you scraped by with your hide intact for once. Or should I say, mostly intact.” The grazed skin and burns were mostly healed by the time Ichabod had returned, but their remnants did not escape detection by Washington’s discerning eye.

“My injuries were trifling and I consider them not worth mentioning in light of the fate of my compatriots,” the captain replied solemnly. 

“The value of what you accomplished that day cannot be overestimated.” He had never explained to Ichabod the true nature of the Lesser Key of Solomon. How does one explain, without sounding mad, that the book inside would release a horde of demons into the world who would devour all in sight? He would not have credited it himself, had he not seen it with his own eyes. It was back during his first command, in ’54. His visions were still young and untested then, but they had led him unerringly to a hidden glade in the wood whereupon he found that fool de Jumonville attempting to unleash forces beyond his control to win victory for France. No witness from that day ever spoke of the true nature of the events which they saw, for many feared for their own sanity, and Washington counseled his men as best he could to put the fantastic sights behind them.

He managed to take possession of the Key and get it safely away from the field of battle before he was overwhelmed by French forces. Two fellow Masons had secreted it up to Boston where it would remain safely in the hands of a trusted Brother, Thomas Hutchinson. Washington had no way of knowing then that Boston would prove to be the center of tumult for a fledgling revolution which would rive the Lodge asunder, turning Brother against Brother and setting the stage for dire forces to corrupt the noblest of souls in the name of Loyalty and Righteousness. Only a timely letter from the intrepid Mrs. Gage, for whom loyalty to her native land and coven surpassed her duties to husband and king, had warned him of the necessity of moving the Key before it was transferred to loyalist hands in New York. 

“It was honor to serve you in this covert campaign, and I was most gratified that you would place such trust in me, as untried as I was then.” The captain’s voice resonated with fondness and sincerity, stirring tender sensations in the general’s heart.

“How can a man prove his aptitude without being granted the responsibility to act as his judgment dictates?”

“Nevertheless, you trusted me despite my recent associations, for which favor you must know I will always be sensible.”

“I do not think you should thank me for starting you on this hellish journey until after you have completed the task which I am about to set you.” 

“I am yours to command, my lord.” The teasing in Ichabod’s voice was not lost on Washington, and brought to mind memories of a few of their more ardent meetings, which were certainly not conducive the prosecution of martial affairs. He forestalled this gambit with a stern glance and blunt speech.

“I need you to kill a man.” If this direction were at all unpalatable to the recipient, there was no indication to this effect to be read in his untroubled visage. Captain Crane was never one to shirk any duty put before him.

“Given that this privy conference is taking place here under the close protection of our Brothers, I trust it is not too presumptuous to infer that his is no ordinary man?”

“Your mind proves as sharp as ever, dear friend. He is a formidable foe, indeed. He rides a white horse, his face is concealed behind a mask of leather, and he will have a mark upon his hand in the shape of a bow.”

“A gruesome figure, to be sure.”

“He is a rider straight from the fields of hell, and he approaches Tarrytown from the south, along the bank of the river. You must intercept him and stop him.”

“ I will of course, do as you bid,” Ichabod assured him with his customary earnestness. “Please forgive my impudence, but will you not tell me how you have such knowledge of these events? Though I have asked before, and you have refused to answer, given the nature of the upcoming contest, can you not allay my curiosity on this one occasion?”

It was so typical of Crane’s insatiable thirst for knowledge, that Washington almost laughed, particularly since the query was accompanied by a look of near petulant desperation, almost like a child begging to know the content of a gift before Christmas morn. If anyone could tempt him to reveal the truth, it was this man, but not even for his beloved Crane would he break his silence. In the early days he often imputed intelligence to a mysterious ally of the Six Nations, and later to an unnamed Brother from a distant Lodge. The subterfuges were many to prevent word of his affliction being spread abroad. The thought of his credibility evaporating with even a single whisper chilled him to the bone. It had taken him half a lifetime to work his way into a position from which he could wield his influence unhindered against the forces of darkness, secretly exploiting his unique cognition. If that should be taken from him now, it would not simply destroy one man, he doubted not but that it could very well seal the fate of humanity. 

“We have a great many allies in this contest who put themselves at great risk to assist us. You have done so yourself on many occasions. I could no more compromise one of them than I can you.” 

Crane had the good grace to look mildly contrite, but not ready to give up his line of questioning. To divert the agile mind before him, the general leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hand over his companion’s knee. “I cannot overstate the importance of the task I entrust to you. The Secret War we have been fighting for so long will reach a crisis point very soon, and I fear if you fail in this, our cause will be lost.”

“I will not fail you, sir.” To punctuate his determination, he took up the general’s hand and gently kissed the palm.

Washington sucked in his breath at the provocative sensation. It had been too long since they had shared any sort of intimate congress, and for good reason. He tried to pull back but Ichabod would not oblige him.

“What troubles you, Brother. Are we not quite alone here?”

“Yes, indeed, our privacy is well guarded. It is merely that you have seemed…distant since your marriage.” He thought of darling Sarah Fairfax, whose kindness and patience was second only to her love of intrigue. Her nimble mind had bought him many satisfying and solitary hours with her husband. While his familiarity with Katrina Crane stretched far enough to encompass many dangerous secrets, he did not know the extent of her understanding in certain matters. “I would not call upon you to break your vows or sow the seeds of discord between you and your lady.”

“My devotion to Katrina does not obviate my affection for you. Besides, it was she who told me that the bonds of brotherhood are sacred.” Crane paused and glanced quickly about the room in a way that always signified his discomfort. “As are the bonds of sisterhood.”

Washington’s eyes widened briefly as the implications came fully to light, and he grinned. “Do I detect a blush under all your whiskers?”

“We were talking about us,” said Crane, equally adept at deflecting conversation away from undesirable topics. He kissed the general’s wrist this time, then slipped slowly forward to come to rest kneeling between the man’s knees. “And I am gratified that my cumber at least brought a smile to your face. That sight has been too rare of late.”

“There has been little genuine amusement…” The general broke off with a gasp as deft fingers found their way into the confines of his breeches and took firm hold of his manhood. 

“I consider it my duty to ply you with amusements until you can no longer stand,” promised Ichabod before his mouth followed where his hand had previously ventured. His practiced lips embraced the general’s shaft, which came to life under their expert ministrations. Washington nearly dissolved on the spot, his limbs overcome with delightful laxity. It was a pleasure that built slowly and steadily until he could no longer remain still, his hands and his lips tingled, craving to touch every part of this radiant man.

Before he could reach his completion, he pushed Ichabod back and surged forward, bearing them both to the ground. Their lips met in frenzied hunger and their hands groped to find bare skin. For once, he cursed the cumbersome nature of the uniform for which he had so often advocated. Coats were eventually shed, and waistcoats tossed aside with all buttons, by some miracle, intact. The greatest satisfaction came when Ichbod’s neck was free of its stock, and the general could devour his throat with kisses. When their exposed flesh finally met, chest to chest, both men groaned and grappled even more fiercely, striving to map each other’s every last feature. 

The ribbon was lost from Ichabod’s hair, allowing Washington to thread his fingers through it as they had been itching to do all evening. The captain, for his part, divested the general of his stately powdered wig to reveal closely cropped steel gray locks.

“I love how fierce you look with your head bared. With periwig in place, your glance strikes fear into the hearts of men, but without, you might pass for the mighty Achilles himself.” This last was punctuated by the swipe of a tongue behind the general’s left ear. If a great leader could be said to have squirmed, this one most certainly did so. 

“It is an ill comparison, for that would cast you in the role of Patroclus, when it is clear you better resemble the wily Odysseus.” With that rejoinder, Washington finally freed the captain’s straining shaft, shoving handfuls of fabric and buttons over the firmest buttocks he had ever encountered, and the captain was quick to fit their bodies together in a most stimulating fashion. It was tempting to come to fruition right then and there, despite the coldness of the floor and rough chafing of the elegant carpet, but Washington wanted more and he could tell his companion did the same. They split apart reluctantly, both breathing heavily from their labors. 

“Shall I do the honors?” offered Ichabod, readying himself on his knees.

“No, you have a long ride ahead of you. I should hate to render you unfit for duty. Besides, I require a demonstration of your readiness for battle. Will you not draw your sword and let me feel the keenness of its point? ” Washington also considered that this was the best way to feel the effects of their encounter the longest, although it would never be long enough to make up for a lifetime without him.

“It would be an honor.”

“Nonsense, at my age it behooves me to make younger men do the work whenever possible.”

This brought a laugh from Ichabod, another thing that was too rare in this world, in Washington’s opinion. “Just let me ready the sheath,” said the general, clambering to his feet. He made his way, as best he could would this breeches around thighs, over to the desk, where was laid in a supply of oils for the cleaning of weapons, which he knew would ease the way. As he bent to open the bottom drawer, a hand caressed his exposed buttock.

“Tis a lovely night,” Ichabod’s warm voice observed. “A more beautiful moon I have never been privileged to witness.”

“I doubt not the sharpness of your tongue, young whelp. Tis only your blade that needs proving,” chided Washington, handing over the oil. He made to move back to the fire, but found himself crowded up against the solid oak.

“Let us do it here. I should like to carry with me the image of you spread across your maps and papers, bathed in candlelight and lost in carnal pleasures.”

“My maps are back at headquarters,” the general pointed out with a gesture to the few stray volumes that littered the surface.

“Indeed, I have seen them frequently,” he said kissing Washington’s shoulder and pressing him forward to lean on his elbows. “And now I shall be able to assemble the memories into one, as a painter with a fair milkmaid in a rustic landscape.” The general barked out a laugh that transformed into a groan as his delicate orbs were seized in a firm grasp and tugged in just such a way as a maid might set about attending to her cow. His blood surged and he struggled to open his constrained legs wider. He was not made to wait long before Ichabod slid a slick digit into his tight opening, a welcome visitor after so long an absence.

“And now, dear sir, you will feel the power of my sword,” came the teasing words his ear. The promise was soon fulfilled, as was the general’s sheath. He thrust back to receive it, and was not disappointed. The captain captured his hips and took control of the pace, forcing him relentlessly down against the hard wood. The solid rod stabbed into him over and over, sending his blood racing ever faster through his veins. He swore softly as the shaft struck that sensitive spot inside him that could only ever be reached by the most intimate of companions. He reveled licentiously in the sensations, knowing that this would be the last time he enjoyed this with his gallant captain. He cataloged them all, the strong hands holding his hips, the slap of taut flesh against his backside, the sound of panting breath coloring the air, the musky scent of their mingled bodies. If only it could last forever. 

The pace increased, ever faster like a galloping horse, until Ichabod reached his release with a keening moan, draping himself momentarily across the general’s back. But before the sweat could even begin to cool, he found himself turned abruptly and his shaft eagerly swallowed. He gave thanks for the desk supporting him now as his senses deserted him and ecstasy suffused his body and mind. His hands found purchase on the captain’s disheveled locks just as his vision whited out and he spilled forth into the welcoming mouth.

And then he saw his captain, dressed in a foreworn civilian coat, standing next to an African woman in some sort of uniform. He called her lieutenant. They were surrounded by what appeared to be some sort of self-propelled carriages of metal and glass. A great metal bird flew past in sky behind them with a loud roar. 

Washington sat up, startled, with a gasp, nearly striking his skull against that of his worried companion who had been looking down upon him.

“Fare you well, sir?”

He grasped the captain’s arms, and let his head fall forward against his companion’s chest as he desperately tried to reorient himself. “Yes, yes, of course,” he panted. Never before had a vision overtaken him during waking hours. “Your blade is as sharp and unerringly accurate as ever, my dear.” He closed his eyes for a moment, soaking in the new information. Ichabod would live. Somehow, in some manner that defied sanity, he would live but far, far away, in, though it be mad to credit it, the future. He shuddered at the thought, but rejoiced, as well. He knew not how it would end, but for now it was enough to know his brave warrior would carry on the fight.

Ichabod tipped the general’s head back and looked at him shrewdly. “Do not try to deceive me. Have I hurt you?” 

“Far from it, my boy. You have made me the happiest of men. I was merely overcome momentarily with the power of your weapon.” A doubtful look remained on the captain’s face, which Washington erased with an ardent kiss, reveling in the taste of his own seed on his lover’s tongue. Reassured, Ichabod responded in kind until the chiming of the clock woke them to their responsibilities. They dressed in complacent companionship, and talked languidly over one more brandy before they parted. 

Washington stopped him at the door for a final word. “If we should not meet again…”

“Do not speak so!”

“Please hear me out. If we should not meet again, know that your companionship has been a balm to my spirit during these years of hardship.”

“And yours has been the greatest gift I could ever have hoped to receive.”

Washington took his hand once more in the brotherly grasp of greeting. “You will journey far, I fear, farther than you can imagine. Please always remember, and draw strength from, my ardent love for you.”

“Only if you will do the same with mine.” 

“I shall, captain. I promise you I shall.” And with that he let go his hand and watched him walk out the door.


End file.
